Knock on Wood
by Aprilsummer
Summary: Who really is Oliver Wood?


Oliver Wood. What do people have to say about him?  
  
"That fucking basterd?"-Marcus Flint "I don't think he had much of a life, besides Quiddich. He didn't get nearly as many NEWTs as I did."-Percy Weasley "That Gryffindor Bloke, who THINKS he is a good keeper? He is as good as a keeper as my old house-elve was."- Draco Malfoy "I honestly don't know much about him other than he was a spanking good keeper. Maybe, that's all there is to know about him?"-George Weasley. Who is Oliver Wood?  
"Oliver Wood."  
  
I write that name every day on homework papers and when just doodling. It is my name, after all. It is who I am. You think of me when you hear the name "Oliver Wood." That's me. Just me. I don't know if anyone else shares my name, and I honestly don't care if they do. Because it's my name, not theirs. It can't REALLY be theirs because it is too much a part of me. Does any of this make sense? No, I don't suppose it would. Would sounds like Wood. Wood is my name. That's me.  
  
So, you want to know what else is me? Sweat. The moist sweat that glistens all over my body during the heat of passion, during quiddich, and during sex. The sweat drops that roll off my forehead when I pelt a quaffle away from the hoops, as my keeper's duties. The sweat that shines on my chest as I escape in the thrills of love making. The sweat gleams from my pores, the sweat that covers my sexual partners as we intertwine. The sweat that somehow is unbearbly sexy. (Knock on wood) That's me.  
  
I am Blood. I am the blood you spill in wars. The blood lost for the sake of something better. A higher cause, quiddich, another life. Blood that pours from your torn skin. Blood that brands me, blood that was taken forcefully. The blood I lost over the years from everything I held precious. The blood will replenish, though. (Knock on wood) That's me.  
  
I am competition. I am ambitious, when the cause is worthwhile. I am persistent and honest. I am a fighter, wont give in. Wont let the other man win. Win what you sought for, or die trying. Lose blood and sweat to win. Winning is your goal. It is the only thing that stands for all your hard work. It marks who you are. No point in winning if there is no fierce competition, it simply wont be worth anything I am that competition. (Knock on wood) That's me.  
  
I am sex. The sheets tainted with sex, the words you call out, the feeling you get in rapture and in passion, that's me. I am the dreams that make you wild and frustrated with desire. I am the face you see, whilst sitting in your bed all alone at night. I am the forbidden thought on everyone's mind, the manhood you always imagined, but never knew existed. The one to express seuxality, without saying a word. The satisfaction everyone needs. (Knock on wood) That's me.  
  
What do I see when I close my eyes? I see the sweaty face of Marcus Flint behind me. I see his pleasure, his pain. He rakes his short nails across my back, his teeth clench around my neck. He is blood too. I am his. I see his sneer, the pulsing hard muscles on his chest. I see his eyes alive with hunger. I can also still see Percy Weasley. His tongue so pure, so innocent. He doesn't realize everything is a game. He thinks I like him. It isn't that I don't like the way his lips taste, or his hands caress, it's just not what I need. I remember, still, George Weasley. We had lost a quiddich game, he came to check on me. We sought solace. We never found inner-peace, but we found one hell of a connection in each other. Draco Malfoy. His face, his body are burned in my mind. Why and how? I don't even think I know. It was like magic. I sometimes wonder if my time with him was a very vivid dream, but it couldn't have been. He must have felt something too. Men are always attracted to me. (Knock on wood.) That's me.  
I am pain. I am the ripped skin that the blood bleeds from. The tears that cascade down your cheeks and turn your eyes bloody red. The pain that slices through you when your heart is broken. The pain that scars your soul. The pain from shattered dreams. The pain you can't pretend not to feel, because it is killing you. I am the pain from a punch of a lover, the pain from a stab in the chest, the pain from the one you thought you knew. I am the pain we all feel, agonizing, suffering, indiscribable. It hasn't killed me yet. (Knock on wood) That's me. A/N: Okay, I admit it; This story is a little bit odd. It is supposed to be odd. What do you all think? Pls review. If you like dark (sometimes odd) stories read "Bellatrix" and "A differnt sort of fairy tale." They are also by moi ^_^. Okay, anyways this story is unique so I hope you like it. 


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